With any other name
by Milli Moi
Summary: Ron awaits the birth of his first born, anxious and excited he tells the story of his child's name


Patience, have patience! Who had patience in a situation like this? He looked at the clock again, was this thing broken? Did muggle clocks nut function on batteries- if he remembered correctly then those things ran out of power over time, they didn't last forever, and neither did his patience.

Twenty minutes, the nurse said twenty minutes. They just had to get the anaesthetic, the spine blocker, which had a name he had forgotten only seconds after he had heard it. They would let him see her after that.

It had all started on the Friday, she was having pains when he arrived home from work, she had been ok , breathing with her eyes tightly closed and all that, but then it had got more and more intense- as it was apparently supposed to, Harry had told him it would be like this. It would be just as much agony for him to watch his wife in this amount of extreme pain.

It was different for the Potters, they had it easy.

They had arrived at the Royal London Hospital- a muggle hospital- by early Saturday morning. Hermione's Mum buzzed about bringing them food and comforts until Hermione, furious due to her pain levels told her Mother to 'stop feeding Ron' stating 'he doesn't need entertaining.' Saturday had dawned and dusk had come around with no changes. Hermione was a little more diluted- no, dilated- and in a lot of pain. On the Sunday afternoon, there were silent tears on her cheeks, she was exhausted and so sore that she had lost the will to cry out.

Finally, at ten to four in the afternoon, they had noticed something changing in the baby's heart. They had called for an emergency caesarean section operation to get the baby out through an incision into her stomach. She was in so much pain, in pure agony. He knew the expression on her face, knew the begging in her eyes when she looked at her, the begging for help. Help he couldn't give. She had known worse, she had felt pain worse than the most painful death, and this was just as hard to watch as it had been to witness the cruciatus curse.

Now she was in theatre, her spine was being fed toxins which would mean she could feel nothing from the waist down, she was about to be cut open, her guts exposed while she was awake- the thought of that made him feel woozy.

But then, the other thought- the whole other package of thoughts- this was the beginning of the end, their little girl was going to come into the world, she would arrive kicking and screaming, she would be pink and wrinkly; she would be perfect.

He could feel the butterflies in his stomach stretching their wings, and an equal fizzing of bubbles of excitement in his chest. She would be here, after so long, after so much pain an heartbreak and loss. They had waited for her, just like they had waited for each other. Ron sat down on the arm chair in the labour and delivery room. He heard his paper hair net crinkle with the movement. His fingers drummed on the arm for a few moments, then his leg began to bounce and his fingers lost their rhythm. Had the clock hand moved at all?

He felt the feeling of excitement fluctuate back into a feeling of nerves, what is he wasn't ready for this? What if he was going to be a bloody rubbish father? Would she really love him- even if she did inherit his ginger hair and lack of brains? And then the other worries began to push their way forwards, each one fighting for attention like an angry mob.

What if he did something wrong? What if he hurt her? What if he was a bad father? What if their daughter detested him? And then there were the physical effects, what if she was a squib? Or disabled? What if he couldn't love her enough?

The thoughts were making him feel dizzy, faint so that he had to drop his head down between his knees and take deep breaths for a moment. His shoes were covered in blue paper covers which looked ridiculous but supposedly helped keep the theatre sterile. Muggles were so primitive in their medicine but he knew Hermione felt safer here, she knew this world.

She had once described it to him as like knowing two languages, even though she was bilingual in the muggle and magic worlds, muggle was her mother tongue and would always be a little easier, a little safer and more secure.

Ron could only wish it made him feel the same, the blue painted walls, the beds which went up and down and in all kinds of funny positions, and that strange smell – which was apparently a normal smell – it was all so different to everything he knew and was comfortable with.

He stood up again, his body protesting a little but he kept his head and stomach in check, and he crossed the room to the other side of the big multi-position bed to the little plastic tray on wheels next to the window. This was his daughter's first bed, the first place she would lie, wrapped in her shawl that had once been his own. There was a little set of clothes laid out neatly on top of the blanket. A tiny sleepsuit in pale pink with thin horizontal stripes across it, a little pink knitted set or a cardigan, mitts, bootees and a bonnet, all threaded with a slightly more saturated pink ribbon. There was a very small nappy on the top- the new disposable type, not the pinned towels he and his siblings had all used. In the top corner of the plastic bed was a little rabbit toy. It had the softest silver fun and long, lop ears- a gift from Bill and Fleur.

It was all ready, just one thing missing.

Ron slumped onto the wall next to the crib, glancing absentmindedly at the ceiling he began to think. What did he say to her when she arrived? 'hi, I'm you Dad, or at least I bloody hope I am.' No, he couldn't swear- she would be miles away from talking but it just wasn't polite to swear in front of a child, even if they didn't understand.

Inspiration struck.

He pushed lightly off the wall and went rummaging in Hermione's handbag. She would have paper, she always had everything but as usual the bag was a bottomless pit. He glanced around, surveying for cctv cameras before slipping his hand under the back of his shirt and pulling his wand out the back of his jeans.

"Accio Paper." He hissed with a quick, assertive flick of his wand. Instantly a whole notebook came flying out the bag and almost hit him on the chin. Grabbing the notebook, he was glad he hadn't been hit by it, never mind Hermione, the boo would have knocked him out cold. After repeating the process all over again to find one of those ballpoint pens, he returned to his spot on the windowsill. Putting the pen to page he began to write.

Dear baby girl,

Welcome to the real world- yeah, that soft and cosy place isn't the real world unfortunately, and yeah, this world kind of sucks sometimes, sorry about that. I'm your Dad, Ron, and your Mum is Hermione. She's pretty amazing, I suppose we all are- me, your mum and your Uncle Harry, we did a lot of stuff back in the day. But that's another story, you're too young for that stuff now. You are a very special kid, and to the world not just to us. The world has been waiting for you, but we have been waiting for you longer. You are our first baby to make it here, your brothers and sister, they didn't make it- they are in heaven now. You are special because you stayed with us.

I want to let you know that I'm, well, I'm a bit nervous about the whole Dad thing. I was never very good at anything really. You've got so many uncles- the dragon catcher, the cool guy, the academic, the jokers- joker, and your aunty was a famous quidditch player. The guy your aunt Ginny married, well, he's my best mate. And he's the reason we are all still alive. Your mum, it took me a long time to be brave with your mum, to realise we were supposed to be us, supposed to be together. I think I fell in love with her when I was about fifteen, so over ten years. She's amazing, so clever, there isn't a spell she can't do. And she's kind, she helps everyone and loves us all so much. She can be stubborn though, she has a temper and I've lost count of how many slaps about the head I've had over the years, but she would never say anything to hurt you.

I'm, well you've probably guessed, I'm not so good with words, or spells. I'm not as funny as George, as smart as Percy or as cool as Bill and no – sorry – I don't work with dragons. I'm just Ron when it comes down to it. I work in a joke shop with my brother, I like to watch the Quidditch- the Chuddley Cannons are our team, you'll learn all about them- and I don't mind a firewhiskey at the pub with your Uncle Harry, although he's got a new baby too.

You've got lots of cousins, first there was Victoire with her sister Dominique and brother Louis, then there is Molly and Lucy, there are George's kids Fred- after your uncle who is up there, looking after your siblings- and Roxanne. Lastly there are Harry and Ginny's, James is about two now, and your last cousin Albus is only a month old. I bet you two are gonna be great friends.

But I can tell you all about all the family stuff when you are older, and you'll meet them all once you arrive- I just hope your Grandma Weasley doesn't turn up here, she'd cause a right kerfuffle. I want to talk to you about some other stuff, just between us.

I'm a bit scared. Scared of doing everything wrong, of being a rubbish Dad and, well – I'm not saying my parents were rubbish but- I don't want you to feel like I did. When I started school, back in the olden days, I didn't feel like I was special. I had my big brothers for that, and my little sister was so special, so special my mum had six boys just to get Ginny. I was just Ron. I was so average that I didn't even get a special name. See my brothers, they were named after Kings, William, Charles, Frederic and George, Percy was named after sir Percival and me, well, I was just a knight of the round table- no one had ever heard of Ronald. I was the last boy, the last one before they finally got my little sister.

That's why I don't think you'll have any brothers or sisters, because I want you to feel special. You might not be part of a hugely normal and functional family but you will always be loved. I want you to feel like you should. I want you not to just know that you are loved but to feel that you are loved. That, I guess, is what I want in being a Dad, I want you to feel as special as you are, and not just because you're our child, because you are you.

That's where I found your name, or one of the reasons I liked it, you may be like so many other flowers in the pot, in the whole world of botany but your petals, the essence of who you really are, is totally unique with its own set or raggy brown bits and shimmer-in-the-sunlight bits. You aren't me, you aren't Hermione. You are Rose.


End file.
